In One Moment
by xosairbearxo
Summary: In one moment, our lives can be changed forever. On this day, one moment is all it will take to bring everyone's world crashing down on them - they are all about to experience the same heartbreaking tragedy. How did YOUR favorite Glee character react when they first heard the news of Finn Hudson's death?
1. Preface: Author's Note

**Hey everyone, I wanted to start off this story a little unconventionally and have the first chapter be an Author's Note. I felt this important, as there are a couple of ways I plan to handle this story that I wanted to make clear before actually delving into it.**

**First of all, I've been contemplating this story for a couple of weeks now; watching The Quarterback tribute solidified it for me. In the past couple of weeks, I've had snippets of different chapters come into my mind and help me develop what will become this story. Each chapter will be difficult to write – some, more than others. **

**Here is what you need to know:**

**1. Each chapter will focus on one character in particular, and revolve around **_**their **_**experience within the first 24 hours of discovering the news of Finn Hudson's death. The only exceptions to this will be the first chapter, and the chapter for Will and Emma. For the most part, each chapter will stand alone as its own individual story, although overlapping storylines will be woven through a lot of the chapters, as you will see.**

**2. I will not reveal my own cause of Finn Hudson's death until the very last chapter. This was the first thing that ever popped into my mind when I came up with the idea for this story. There will be hints along the way, but I basically knew how I planned for this story to end before I even started writing it. I encourage readers to review each chapter, or whatever chapters they wish, and give their suggestion as to how they think I'm going to deal with this subject matter.**

**3. At the end of each chapter, I will give a small piece of text from the FOLLOWING chapter, without revealing which character it's about. I want this story to involve ****reader interaction****; before I post another chapter, ideally I'd like to see the readers guessing as to who the next chapter will revolve around. The first person to get it right, I will PM and that person will get to contribute some sort of plot-driven aspect they'd like to see incorporated into that chapter somehow. **

**I see this story as a therapeutic way of getting out some of my own personal sadness and grief over Cory's passing, and the passing of Finn Hudson. I know many of you fellow Gleeks share this feeling. It is my hope that this story will bond some of us, even though the circumstances are so unfortunate. Hence why I would love to have feedback and interaction from all of you between chapters. **

**Thank you so much. I hope you enjoy this story, as sad as it may be.**

**Sarah**


	2. Carole and Burt

**Author's Note: I don't own Glee or any of the characters. I don't own any recognizable, canon elements. Also, the run-on sentences in certain parts are intentional.**

…

If you asked Carole Hudson-Hummel what she remembered before she received That phone call, she would tell you that she remembered nothing. You see, simply put, nothing mattered before That phone call. That phone call changed everything. Others would try to get her to recollect the events of that day leading up to that one moment, but she would just shake her head and say the same thing.

_I don't remember_.

And why did it matter? Who cares what she did earlier on in the day? Do you think she gave a damn about the groceries she'd picked up in the morning

(The frozen pizzas sitting still on the kitchen counter were no doubt unthawed by now, and it would take two hours to scrape off the congealed ice cream that has melted onto the smooth marble)

or the fact that her car stalled on her on the way home from her meeting with her accountant? Did it _really _make a difference what she'd eaten for breakfast, or that she'd stopped by the local florist's to smell the new bouquets of flowers because at the time, she was trying to remind herself to appreciate the "little things"?

What she didn't want to talk about was the fact that, just twenty-nine minutes before she received That phone call (she had gone back and counted), Carole had stood in the doorway of Finn's bedroom and shook her head wearily, eyeing the clothes strewn carelessly on the floor. Seriously? There was an empty laundry basket _right _there, next to his dresser. How did he always manage to have his clothes everywhere but _in _the basket? And how many times did she have to remind him to make his bed?! She loved the boy to death, but it was like she was still living with a sophomore instead of a young man in teacher's college.

(_If I could take it all back_)

No, no, she didn't want to talk about it. Her son was gone and all they did was talk and that's not what Carole wanted; she wanted them to tell her they'd made a mistake and the boy she'd see lying on the cold, metal slab was not actually her son and they were wrong and sorry, ma'am, you have a nice day and then she'd go home and Finn would be waiting there, unaware of what had just happened and mindlessly asking when dinner would be ready. Why couldn't they just be wrong?

She didn't want to talk about it. Unless they could bring her son back – and trust me, she considered demanding that of them more than a few times – then they had nothing to offer her. She felt like a robot. How many times had she told this story already? And every time another police officer, or a relative, or a family friend asked her to recount the events "_just one more time_", she had to relive it all over again.

(_If I could take it all back_)

Life didn't matter before That phone call. She _remembered _it, but she'd never admit that to you. She just didn't want to talk about it.

…

Carole would always look back on that moment and think to herself how she'd always heard others talk about that moment that they _knew_. "When the cops came to my door, I knew before I even saw their faces." "I hadn't even answered the phone yet, and I knew something was wrong."

Carole Hudson-Hummel was none the wiser. When she answered the phone that day and received That call, she was in the middle of chuckling at something she'd watched on TV. She hadn't suspected a thing.

It was the police. They spoke fast, so fast. Almost as if they were so uncomfortable with the casualties that comes with the beginning of a phone call and just wanted to get to the important part, and get it over with. Carole was confused as to why they were calling and couldn't understand what they were saying until she heard, "Ma'am, is your son's name, Finn Hudson?"

Her heart began to pound – but still, she did not think of the worst case scenario. She knew Finn had been staying out until the wee hours of the morning lately; an oddity for him, but he was also in his first year of college, and he was spending a lot of time with Noah Puckerman. Partying was a regular occurrence in college, she often had to remind herself, and her son was just doing what any other nineteen-year-old did during the years where they figured themselves out. So she assumed that Finn had gotten out of hand and was sitting in a drunk tank, scared out of his mind and wanting nothing more than to go home.

She said yes, and then turned to grab her car keys and make her way for the door, figuring she was already three steps ahead of the officer on the other end of the line. What followed stopped her in her tracks:

"Ma'am … your son was found unconscious behind the Arts and Education building at the University of Lima this morning. The paramedics were first on the scene and tried to resuscitate him, but it was too late. I'm very sorry."

There was a sort of emotionless disconnection in the cop's voice; more like he was reading from a script than delivering this kind of information to a parent. How many times had he had to say this kind of stuff? Did there ever come a point where you just stopped caring? Or was the only way to constantly survive it, to distance yourself from it all?

_Dead_. He hadn't said it. Not outright. But that's what he meant. _Dead. Finn's dead. Dead dead dead dead dead dead he's dead he's dead he can't be dead I just saw him yesterday this can't be happening dead dead dead dead – _

She thought of the moment she'd given birth to him. She'd been in labor for over thirteen hours, and she was sweaty and red in the face, and by god, she was just ready for this baby to get. Itself. Out. Of. Her. Christopher had held her hand, feeding her praises that she couldn't even hear beyond her shrieks and screams. She'd felt like her whole body would split in two.

But then there he was. One second he was this futuristic, idealistic concept, and the next, he was real. A long, but tiny ball of pink and red, and when his first cry pierced the air, Carole was at peace. She no longer felt pain … none at all. He was placed in her arms, and Christopher cried. She did too.

Her baby's eyes were wide in an innocence and naivety that would turn out to stay with him his entire life – and he looked at her, and she could've sworn that he smiled. "Finn," she whispered, and then looked up to her then-husband. "Let's call him Finn."

…

Burt Hummel walked through the doors just in time to see his wife drop the phone and collapse to the ground. She had passed out.

…

He couldn't fathom what losing Kurt would be like, but losing Finn was the next closest thing. He'd rushed in, startled by Carole's sudden fall, and tried everything he could to wake her up. "Honey? Honey?" he tried sharply, gently tapping on her cheeks, checking her pulse, fanning her with his hands. But she was out cold. Faintly, from the distance, he could hear someone calling out to Carole from the other end of the phone.

"Hello? Mrs. Hudson? Mrs. Hudson, are you okay?" the voice called.

Burt picked up the phone and held it to his ear. "This is Carole's husband; I'm sorry, my wife's fainted. Who is this? What's going on?"

And then Burt Hummel felt his blood turn to ice.

…

Carole awoke to find herself on the couch in the living room. Burt sat by her feet, leaning forward on his elbows. His hands were laced together and his chin was resting on top of them. He stared straight ahead and didn't even flinch when he felt her stir. Perhaps he should've. But he didn't know how to look at her just yet.

For a moment, she didn't remember. She felt like she'd just woken up from a nap, only she couldn't remember lying down for one. The day, the year, the time – they were all unknown, and she felt very scattered. She saw her husband sitting by her feet, and her brow furrowed in confusion.

"What…?" she began to say, and then, finally, Burt turned and looked at her. One look from him, and she was back. She remembered.

It was like someone had grabbed hold of her lungs and, with a quick and violent motion, gripped them and twisted. Her eyes pooled with tears and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't breathe and god, she just … couldn't … breathe …

Burt's hands were on either side of her face, and she looked to him and produced this heart-wrenching sound; like a strangled sob and an angry shout. Burt wanted to tell her exactly what she needed to hear – but what was that exactly? If he told her it would be okay, he'd be lying. He couldn't tell her they'd get through it because he wasn't ready to say those words yet. They _would _get through it eventually, of course they would. But not today. Not tomorrow. Maybe not next week.

They would get through it eventually, but eventually was not right now. He wished they could just skip right to that part.

He opened his mouth, despite having nothing to say, and his saliva was hot and sickly sweet. There was too much of it; he kept trying to swallow it down in big, overflowing gulps, but it felt like a baseball caught in his throat. He had to be strong for Carole – she needed him, and this was his job, and if he fell apart, she'd absolutely lose it, and he couldn't do that to her, but Finn was gone and he was never coming home, and this news only _really _hit him suddenly as he looked into his wife's eyes and saw the features on her that had been passed down to that boy, that boy, and he was gone now, and what was the last conversation he had had with him? and when was the last time he gave him a hug? and –

He was sobbing now. She was hysterical. The only thing worse than finding out your baby boy was now dead was to have to live it all over again like this. She wondered how many more times she'd have to relive this. She wondered how many she could take.

…

(They'd cried for hours.)

(They spoke to the police.)

(They received phone call after phone call from friends of the family, and family itself.)

(They hadn't yet heard back from Kurt.)

(They went to the morgue.)

(Please don't let it be him.)

(It was him.)

(He was so grey and pale and lifeless and peaceful looking and it was him, it was him, it couldn't be him, but it was.)

(She screamed. _Please come back! Please!_ She held on tight. She refused to let go. Burt could only turn his back, his hands shoved in his pockets, and let silent tears cascade down his cheeks in pairs.)

(It took four of the staff members to eventually pull her off.)

(She screamed so much.)

(They drove home. Neither said a word.)

…

Eventually, they walked up the stairs - gingerly, almost as if trying not to wake anyone – to make their way to their bedroom. Burt had decided once they'd returned home that Carole needed to lie down. She was too tired to resist. But once they hit the top of the stairs, Burt realized how terrible of a decision this had been. To get to their room, they had to pass by…

Carole stopped. She stared into the dark and uninhabited bedroom and saw the clothes strewn on the floor and the messy, unmade bed.

(_Seriously? There was an empty laundry basket right there, next to his dresser. How did he always manage to have his clothes everywhere but in the basket? And how many times did she have to remind him to make his bed?!)_

Her bottom lip trembled. Burt shadowed behind her, seeing into the room but being affected by it for entirely different reasons. In the far back corner, right on a side table, was the infamous "faggy" lamp. It was _right there. _

Burt couldn't do it. He knew he had to, and that he should, but he just couldn't. He placed a hand on Carole's shoulder, but she just shrugged it off, eyes never leaving the room, and hoarsely whispered, "I don't want to talk about it."

_I have to get out of here_, Burt thought. He felt like death was standing right behind him, beside him, all around him. And it would consume him and bring him to his knees, and all he'd be capable of doing was cry until _he _felt like he wanted to die. Because no amount of crying would bring Finn back – but crying's all he wanted to break down and do. He had never felt so helpless, and useless.

He backed away slightly and said quietly, "I'm going to try calling Kurt again."

Carole didn't answer. And so after a moment, Burt turned and she could hear his footsteps become softer and softer as he went back down the stairs. She loved her husband, and she knew she was taking out … _this_ … on him by putting up a wall. But she couldn't help it. She didn't want to talk about it. She wanted her son back.

She continued to stare into the depths of Finn's room. He would never be in here again. _No_. She couldn't think about that. She saw his clothes and scolded herself for wasting so many moments dwelling on the fact that his clothes weren't in the laundry basket, or his bed wasn't made, or that he didn't put the cap back on the toothpaste … she obsessed over every small thing she'd ever nagged him about and even caught herself wondering, _Did my son die thinking I didn't love him_?

This, of course, was absurd. Carole was one of the kindest women – and mothers – you'd ever meet, but the mind has a funny way of making you turn on yourself in these "what if" times. No amount of "I love yous" and special moments can possibly make up for the times where you _should've _replaced lecturing and _motherly _talks with _more _I love yous. She should've never have gotten mad at him or scolded him, ever. She should've always just hugged him and said, "I love you." Right now, that was the only thing that made sense, and she hated herself for not having always done so when she had the chance.

_Dead dead dead he's dead my baby's dead and I want him back and I just want to hold him no no no this isn't happening Finn baby please come back to me please_ –

She wanted to lie down in his bed and wrap his blankets around her; she wanted to rest her head on the familiar indent in his pillow and see if his usual spot was still possibly warm from the last time he had slept there. That had only been a day beforehand. She wanted to sit amongst his dirty clothes and hold each one for an eternity, stroking the material of the cloth and memorizing the smell of it. Of her baby.

But instead, she just stood there. The inch of space separated her and the room like an invisible barrier. If she walked in, she may never leave. But she didn't want to go. She didn't want _him _to go.

"_Mom?"_ She could practically hear his voice ringing through the room; and for a split second, she could see him, crystal clear, sitting on the edge of his bed. He looked up at her, and he gave her that lopsided smile that could always brighten her day. She smiled through her tears, incredulously; she couldn't believe he was sitting right there. He continued to smile up at her, and she reached out a hand, as if maybe she could touch him from all the way across the room.

And then he was gone. Just like that.

Her breath caught back in her chest and she felt like she was going to die again. Before she could think, she slammed the door shut, closing off his room from her, and slid down to the floor. She didn't know if she'd ever be able to go back in there. Maybe eventually, but eventually was not right now. She put her head in her hands and began to howl Finn's name, wishing he would hear it somehow and come back.

…

Burt had stood in the kitchen the entire time, staring at the phone on the counter but not daring to pick it up. He had to call Kurt, he had to call Kurt - of course he had to call Kurt. But he didn't know if he could do it. He and his son had been through so much over the years; they'd survived Kurt's mother's death and gotten through it together. This was not quite like her death.

And yet it was, too, in so many ways. He found himself at a greater loss of words than he had been when put in this same situation, eleven years before. He thought of that day. He thought of Kurt, and all he'd been through. But mostly, he just thought of Finn.

What were the last words he'd said to him? Something about "getting back at it"? What was _it_? School? Was that it? He couldn't remember. Had he hugged him? He didn't think so. When was the last time he'd hugged him? Had he ever told Finn he loved him?

That hit Burt, hard. He _did _love that kid, something fierce. Somewhere along the line over the last couple of years, Finn had truly and undeniably become a son to him. Finn was the son he'd never had; Kurt was all he needed and more in terms of who _he _was as a son, but admittedly, he was able to bond with Finn in a way he wasn't ever able to with Kurt. Kurt had taught him compassion, and how to open himself up emotionally. Finn taught him about forgiveness, and humility, and they even got to talk sports and work on cars together. Finn and Kurt complimented and completed each other in all respects, and together offered Burt every possible spectrum to learn, grow, and love as a father. With the two of them, he realized he'd felt like a _whole_ dad.

And now, he felt like half of him had been ripped away. Though he had only been Finn's father-figure for a couple of years, he knew Finn was meant to be his son, just as Kurt was. He couldn't imagine what it would be like to lose Kurt, but losing Finn was a very close second.

He hadn't realized he'd been crying again. Quickly, he wiped away the tears with the back of his hand and cleared his throat. He needed to stop crying. He needed to be strong. With a trembling hand, he picked up the phone and dialed Kurt's number before he could talk himself out of it. And then he waited.

…

FROM THE NEXT CHAPTER…

The phone rang. And then it rang again. And again. And again. And each time, he would look at the screen and see if it was _him _calling. Each time he had hope. But every single time, his heart would drop. He was angry; angry at the world, angry at everyone calling him … angry at Finn.

He didn't want to talk to anyone else. He only wanted to talk to _him_. And so he let the phone ring, over and over, for hours – and he never stopped checking the screen each time it did, hoping that maybe _this time_, he would see Finn's name on his caller ID …


	3. Kurt

**Author's Note: I don't own Glee, any of the characters, or anything recognizable from the canon. **

…

Kurt felt numb. He'd sat there, in that exact spot on his bedroom floor, for more than an hour. He just stared, looking ahead but seeing nothing.

"_Kurt, it's your dad."_

"_I know it's you, dad," Kurt had laughed. Something was apparent in Burt's tone, but he couldn't have imagined it would've been something so horrible. He rushed around his room, only half-listening; he loved talking to Burt, but he always seemed to call when he was just about to head out the door._

_From the cheerful way Kurt spoke, Burt had known that Kurt hadn't found out yet._

"_I … kiddo, there's something I have to tell you …"he'd sighed. _

_Kurt stopped. He immediately went to – what he thought – was the worst possible scenario. Burt was going to tell him that his cancer was back. That had to be what it was, why he was having such a difficult time saying what was going on._

"_Dad? What's wrong?"_

_His father began to cry._

He was vaguely aware that the photo of him and Finn, sitting off to his right, was bluntly faced his way. He could feel Finn's eyes on him, but he refused to look. He just stared straight ahead. His expression was blank. There was just … nothing there.

"Your brother passed away."

What a delicate way to put it. Burt had tried so hard; Kurt could hear how difficult it was for him to be crying … how many times he tried to stop himself so he could regain his composure … how his uneven voice was fighting so hard to remain stable and strong. But the moment those words were said, Kurt completely shut down. All he could manage after that were one-word answers, maybe two. He could practically hear Burt's voice pleading with him to _talk _to him, to say what was on his mind – how did he _feel_? - but deep down, Kurt imagined that Burt couldn't help but be relieved too that he wouldn't need to say much else.

"_Dad, I … I have to go," Kurt eventually said after the world's longest, most uncomfortable pause. _

_Another pause._

"_Are you going to be okay, kiddo?" Burt asked, his voice still wavering._

_Kurt's lips were pressed into a firm line and he exhaled. "Dad, I'm sorry, I just got to go."_

_Another pause._

"_Okay," Burt sighed. "I love you, Kurt."_

"_Love you too," Kurt replied quickly, flatly. "I'll call you later. Give Carole a hug for me. Bye."_

_He hung up before Burt could say anything else._

Part of him was experiencing a loud internal monologue for the next hour, ordering him to call his father back. Burt probably needed him right now; Carole probably did, too. But he just wanted to be alone. Should he go home? Was he supposed to stay here? Would they all make a big deal about it if he _did_? Or would they make a big deal about it if he _didn't_? Half of him wanted to go back, but the other half of him never wanted to set foot in Lima, Ohio again.

Finn. Finn was gone. How could a person just be here one second and then be gone the next? It didn't feel real. He picked up his phone and hesitantly dialed his brother's number. He stared at it for a few moments and then hit the "talk" button. He held the phone to his ear, and he also held his breath.

It rang, and rang, and rang … until three more rings later, he got his voicemail.

"Hey, you've reached Finn! I must be busy – sorry about that! Leave your name and number, and I'll call you back as soon as I can!" There some awkward fumbling; and Kurt could faintly hear Finn mutter, "How do you stop this stupid thi-" and then it beeped. Kurt breathed heavily, his eyes wide, not knowing what to do. All there was was silence on the other line.

"Finn?" he whispered, almost as if anticipating that his brother would magically say something back on the other end. But there was nothing.

Covering his mouth quickly, he pressed "end" and threw his phone away from him like it was a venomous snake.

He didn't know what he'd expected to happen. He was half-hoping that this was all just some awful, horrible dream, and when he called Finn's phone, he would answer and be surprised that Burt would say that he was dead. He'd laugh and say something like, "Well, uh, I'm right here!" Then Kurt would feel like he could breathe again, and he'd exhale loudly, and the two of them would laugh together; Kurt would ask him to fill him in on everything that had happened to him since they last spoke, and this time he'd hang onto every word as if it was gold.

If Finn could just come back, Kurt promised he'd never take advantage of a single phone call again. He'd even find another job to make more money, just so he could travel back home every other weekend. He'd see his family more. He'd call more often. He'd actually listen, all the time. He'd try harder, he really would.

He hugged his knees up to his chin and wrapped his arms around them. Dropping his head to his legs, he curled into a ball and bit his lip. Why wasn't he crying yet? He could feel the urge to, right there in his chest, just below the urge to scream. He tried to push it, to force it to come crawling up his chest and through his eyes somehow; he didn't _want _to cry, but _shouldn't _this be something he should be doing? No matter how hard he dug down deep, he wouldn't cry. That was it. That had to be it – he _wouldn't _cry. Not because he _couldn't_. It was a conscious decision that he was making somewhere, deep down. If he cried, he'd have to acknowledge Finn's death as fact. Then he'd have to acknowledge that the next logical step was a funeral, and he'd have to go home, and see everyone again, and maybe even see Finn lying in an open casket at a wake or something. Inevitably though, no matter what else happened, if Kurt cried, then eventually he'd have to say goodbye.

Kurt wasn't anywhere near ready to do that yet.

Turning his head, he finally took notice of the framed portrait on his night table. There they were … two brothers, dawning their graduation gowns and caps, side by side, with two gigantic grins plastered on their faces. That felt more like a lifetime ago, rather than almost a year. The world had been so full of hope and possibilities back then. He tried to think really hard; where _exactly _had their lives been the moment that photo was taken? Neither Kurt or Finn had yet opened their response letters from NYADA or the Actor's Studio – they weren't aware that they would face crushing rejection within about an hour. Of course, things had worked out for Kurt in the long run; he eventually got in, but what about Finn?

In that one moment, when this photo was taken, Finn saw his future as one big, bright possibility. He had hope that he would get into that school in New York; he had hope that he and Rachel would get married that day, and they'd all face their futures together, as they were meant to – Finn and Rachel a happy family, and Finn and himself continuing to strengthen their bond as brothers.

(_Rachel._)

Kurt felt the first seed of anger planted deep in the pit of his belly. It was all because he'd never gotten into the Actor's Studio. Everything that happened after that was all a direct result of that one simple denial.

(_Rachel._)

If Finn had gotten in, if he just would've been accepted, he would've moved with him and Rachel to New York. He wouldn't have gone off and joined the Army, which means he wouldn't have shot himself in the leg and been semi-honourably discharged. This, of course, would mean that he and Rachel wouldn't have split up, and with that and the whole army thing, Finn wouldn't have fallen into a depression like he had.

(_Rachel_.)

Kurt had known that Finn had been feeling down about himself and was going through a drastic behavioural change, but at the time, he had been so wrapped up in his break up with Blaine that he couldn't be bothered to think of anything else. All he'd wanted to do – all he'd had the strength to do – for weeks was to feel sorry for himself; he certainly hadn't had the energy to feel sorry for anyone else.

(_Rachel_.)

He squeezed his eyes shut and buried his head in his hands. He should've been more aware of what was going on with Finn. This was, in a way, his fault. If you can't rely on your friends and _family _to notice when you're going off the tracks and help you find your way again, then who were you supposed to rely on? Kurt had failed Finn as a brother.

(_Rachel_.)

Something clicked. His eyes suddenly snapped wide and he raised his head quickly, as if being startled. "Rachel," he whispered, all the blood draining from his face. For the first time, he realized that there was someone else who would be more affected by this news than he was. Did she already know? Was she home and he didn't even know it? If she didn't know, should _he _be the one to tell her? His eyes darted to his bedroom door. Of course he had to be the one to tell her; Finn was his brother and Kurt was Rachel's best friend.

_Could _he tell her? He didn't know if he had the strength to be the strong one right now. Mostly he just wanted to curl up and – no, he didn't want to cry. He wouldn't. He wanted to yell. Yes, that's what he wanted to do. He wanted to rip the pictures from his walls, and hurl every moisturizing product he owned – all neatly arranged in order or nightly use – to the floor. He wanted to trash his entire living space, kick and throw things, and scream into his pillow until he was blue in the face.

Then he heard movement. It was a key. Unlocking the door. He jumped to his feet and ran out of his room and into the living room. "Rachel!?" he called out, much louder than he'd intended. But then he stopped in his tracks. It was just Santana. Catching his breath a little, Kurt placed his hands on his hips and offhandedly said, "Oh, hey Santana. I thought…"

"I know."

Her reply was so much softer than he'd ever heard her speak. She sounded strange. This time he actually took the time to look at her, and he knew right away that she knew, too. She stared at the floor, not even bothering to shut the door behind her, and she looked like she was lost in thought. She also looked confused. She held her phone in her hand, and from the way she subconsciously held it away from her body – as if some force in it was literally repelling itself away from her – he guessed that she had _just_ found out. She looked up at him, that look of confusion and disbelief never leaving her.

"Is she…?" she asked, looking past him and scanning to see if Rachel was home.

Kurt shook his head. "No."

The two stared at each other uncomfortably for a minute. Santana cleared her throat and tried to sound more like herself. "Does, uh … does she know yet?" She wouldn't say it out loud, but she didn't like how hollow and expressionless Kurt appeared. It frightened her a little, to be honest.

He shrugged and then shook his head. "I don't know," he answered, and he sounded so tired.

Normally, this would be the time where friends would hug. They would run into each other's arms and burst into tears; they'd sink to the floor together and hold each other while. They'd comfort each other and say the right things to help the other get through this tough time in one piece.

But Kurt and Santana were not like that; they never had been. For a brief, fleeting moment, Santana imagined them doing exactly all of that, but the thought of it made her feel uncomfortable. So she nodded, as if Kurt had said the only thing that made sense, and then awkwardly said, "Yeah, well … she's probably just running late with her 'Funny Girl' rehearsal or something …"

Kurt just looked at her. The longer he looked, the more Santana knew she should asked him how he was doing – did he need a hug? Did he want to talk about it? How did he find out? Could he tell her how it happened? She hadn't heard that much about it … She knew she _should _be doing all these things and more, and it all made her so uncomfortable. _Exposed_.

He understood. He saw how she felt – despite thinking her a closed book, she could wear her heart so plainly on her sleeve sometimes. How could they even manage small talk right now? He wondered what she was thinking. He knew, even though she might turn around and deny it one day, that she cared. She _always _cared; and the biggest danger with never showing how you feel is that, inside, the truth is that you care _too much._

"I, uh …" she looked to her phone clutched so tightly in her hand, and then back to Kurt. The way he stared; it was like he wasn't expecting a single thing from her. This made her feel even worse. "I'm going to go …" She pointed half-heartedly in the direction of her room and then muttered, "Okay," and left as quickly as she could.

And Kurt _hadn't _expected a thing from her. But not because of her specifically; it certainly wasn't a judgement towards her character. He just knew what it was like not to want to talk about it; he was feeling that way right now. He heard her door shut, and woodenly, he walked over to the front door and shut it.

How would he tell Rachel? Maybe he'd get Santana to do it. The idea of having to recap the information his dad had told him made him feel sick. Why did _he _have to be the strong one? Didn't he have the right to be small, and weak, and be left alone, just this once? He sat by himself in the living room for a while and then returned to his bedroom and shut the door softly behind him. Then he took the photo of him and Finn and turned it face-down onto the night table so he didn't have to see it. Maybe tomorrow he could look at it, or the next day. Maybe next week. Or maybe in a month. He'd be able to look at it again eventually, but eventually was not right now.

Picking his phone up from off the floor and sitting on his bed, against the wall, Kurt unlocked his phone to see that he had some missed texts and calls:

_How are you doing, kiddo? I love you. _– Burt

_hey babe, how was your day? xo_ – Blaine

_babe? helloooooooo? :P_ – Blaine

_Kurt, please call us when you can. We love you. I'm sorry. _– Burt

_kurt? where are you? i'm starting to get worried :s call me please _– Blaine

_I'm so sorry. You're family is in my prayers. I love you. _– Mercedes

_Thanks for shutting the front door _– Santana

One missed called from his dad, a couple missed calls from friends of the family, and three missed calls from Blaine. Judging by his texts, Kurt assumed that Blaine didn't know yet. He glanced down at the engagement ring on his left hand, and then took it off and put it on his table, next to the frame. He didn't know why he did that. It's not like any of this was Blaine's fault, and it's not like Kurt suddenly didn't want to be engaged anymore.

He just had this overwhelming desire to destroy everything he loved – just for a moment, just so he could _feel _something other than anger. He felt so. Much. Anger. What he didn't like was that, aside from this anger, he still felt completely numb. He tried to force himself to think of happier moments in his life, like when he met Blaine, or got his first solo, or felt the lights of Broadway on his face in New York, or got the job at Vogue, or watched Blaine drop to one knee before him at Dalton … but nothing. They felt like empty shells of memories belonging to someone else.

_Who cares_? He kept thinking. _What does any of this matter?_

They were all going to die in the end; you could try, and work hard, and persevere your entire life, and for what? So you can just be gone in a matter of seconds. Aside from the people in Lima, who would remember his brother? Who would remember Finn Hudson? He gritted his teeth together. He wanted the whole world to stop turning for just a second, and for everyone to realize how wonderful of a person was lost. But when you die, the world just keeps turning, and no one cares. Kurt thought of all the terrible people there are in the world – serial killers, rapists, child molesters – and he hated them for being allowed the right to walk around right now and continue to breathe while his brother didn't.

This is why he couldn't believe in a god.

He jumped as his phone vibrated again. He looked down at the caller ID: " Blaine ". He clicked the screen off and dropped the phone beside him, his leg being tickled by the continuing vibrations. Let it ring. He didn't want to talk to Blaine, or his dad, or Santana, or Rachel, or Mercedes, or anyone right now.

(Except that wasn't quite true…)

For the next couple of hours, he sat against the wall in a daze, as his phone continued to ring incessantly beside him. Blaine called six more times. Burt tried calling again. Family members, and people he'd only met once in his life, and numbers he'd never even heard of, they all called him. They wouldn't stop.

Eventually, he could feel himself breaking. In between one of the many phone calls, he suddenly grabbed his phone and desperately punched Finn's number in and called it. This time it didn't even ring; it just went straight to voicemail.

"Hey, you've reached Finn! I must be busy – sorry about that! Leave your name and number, and I'll call you back as soon as I can! … How do you stop this stupid thi-" And then a beep. Kurt cried out in frustration and redialed. He did this three, maybe four more times. And each time it went straight to voicemail, his face would redden even deeper and he'd shake his head and with shaking hands, redial the number. And he tried to cry, he tried, but he still didn't want to, and so his eyes would moisten with tears but they would never actually fall.

Finally, he gripped his phone so hard he wanted to crush it, and he slammed it down on the bed in front of him. "FUCK!" he shouted, dropping his head back into his hands and grabbing onto his hair. He gripped so tightly by the roots that it hurt. So he kept doing it. His back heaved up and down, and the only sound that filled the room in that moment was Kurt's shallow breathing.

Then the phone resumed ringing. And then it rang again. And again. And again. And each time, he would look take a moment to look at the screen and see if it was _him _calling him back. Each time he forced himself to have hope. But every single time, his heart would drop. He was angry; angry at the world, angry at everyone calling him … angry at Finn for leaving him.

He didn't want to talk to anyone else. He only wanted to talk to _him_. And so he let the phone ring, over and over, for hours – and he never stopped checking the screen each time it did, hoping that maybe _this time_, he would see Finn's name on his caller ID …

…

FROM THE NEXT CHAPTER…

It was on the news now. It had only been a few hours, but there it was. Being a Saturday, he had been relaxing at home, flicking through the channels, when he caught a quick glimpse of Finn Hudson's face in the top right-hand corner of the screen. For a second, he thought his eyes had tricked him. But then there he was.

'19-YEAR-OLD UNIVERSITY STUDENT FOUND DEAD'

He dropped the remote. Finn? Finn Hudson? The boy he'd seen so much potential in … who had been with him from the start … he was gone?

No. There was no way. It was impossible. But that's the funny thing about these kinds of situations in life; just when things can't possibly seem to be true, that's when they always are the most.


End file.
